I scanned the area between the bushes rather anxiously, wondering if she would still be there. I remember the thrill I'd felt when I saw the garden spider a few days earlier. It was well into December already--surely, all the summer insects would be gone by now. But then I saw her!
I came back today armed with all the colors I needed to draw the spider.
As the mallards came towards the edge of the pond, I teased them, "I've sketched you two days in a row," and the carp came swimming too--"and you were in the drawing on the second day," I added; "it's the spider's turn today, okay?"
Spiders have eight appendages, but they usually hold the back four in two pairs and the front four in two pairs, so sometimes it looks like they have only four feet. But after I was done with my drawing, the spider brought her legs back apart (was that a spider's way of smiling?), and I smiled back.
"I know; you really have more legs. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Wait. You're supposed to have 8. What happened to your 8th leg?"
"A secret." she seemed to say. Well, she didn't say. Spiders don't talk.
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That 「たといそうでなくても」book from my stepmother's bookshelf--I've read page 205 now. Ahn won over the prison superintendent to Christ then herself went to the prison in Pyong Yan, where many Christians were being incarcerated and tortured for their faith. What secret did God have for her there?
